Crawling Back to You
by Blynneda
Summary: Just a little ficlet, a "night in the life" of Monk.


                                                               **Crawling Back to You**

            He couldn't sleep.  Again.

            _Two thousand, four hundred seventy-two, two thousand, four hundred seventy-three…_

            He'd spent the evening working on the case again.  No, not the case he was being paid to solve, not the case Sharona had insisted he devote his "miracle detective" skills to.  This was the unsolvable case.

            _What if the ceiling tiles fall down and suffocate me in my sleep?_

            Trudy's case.

            He reread every report, every newspaper article, reexamined every piece of evidence.  Stared at that entire file until he could feel the sweat—or blood, he was never convinced which—trickle down his forehead.  Every night it was the same routine.  Over and over again.

            _Did I lock the front door?  Of course, I always lock the front door.  But maybe I forgot this time. . ._

            As usual, he'd come up with no insight, only a stiff neck, eyestrain, and an ever-increasing sense of despair.

            _Oh, my God.  The faucet.  I brushed my teeth and didn't turn off the water.  The sink is going to fill up until it overflows and soaks the bathroom rug.  Then it'll get mildewy and I'll have to buy a new one. . ._

            And then, when he couldn't stand it anymore, he tore himself away from his desk.  He returned moments later to straighten the file, replacing it neatly on the shelf where it always rested in daytime.  He wouldn't put it in a drawer.  That would mean he was getting it out of sight, giving up on it.

            _I said "have a good day" at the end of my conversation with Lt. Barrie from __San Mateo__ today.  Why couldn't I have said something more business-like?  We were discussing a homicide and I tell him "have a good day"?  What is wrong with me?_

            Once he finished his nightly rituals—shower, pajamas, teeth, clean the sink, the toilet, the tub, check the stove, the doors, the windows, the lights, the sinks—he collapsed into bed, exhausted.  But instead of drifting off into a slightly less frustrating slumber (he deserved it . . . didn't he?), he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, mind racing.

            _Did I set the alarm clock?  And the backup alarm clock?  Did I put a new battery in, in case the electricity goes out tonight?_

            Means, Motive, Opportunity.  The textbook starting place of solving a crime.  He knows how it was done.  Everyone knows that.  But he always gets hung up on the second one.  He can't imagine who could want to kill his wife.

            _He had countless enemies.  Starting with himself._

            But Trudy?

            _Does Sharona know we're meeting Lt. Barrie tomorrow?  Did I tell her?  Maybe I should call her._

_            No.  It's late.  She won't want me to call.  I'll call her tomorrow morning._

            The tone rang.  Once.  Twice.  Three times.  Four.

            _Why isn't she answering?  Maybe she's not there.  Maybe something's wrong.  Should I go over there?  Should I call 911?_

            "Hello?"

            "Sharona!  Thank God you're alive!"

            "What are you talking about?  Adrian, it's three in the morning!"

            _What the hell is wrong with you?  Of course she's alive._

            "We have to go to San Mateo tomorrow."  Frantic.  Insistent.

            "I know, I was right there when you called."

            "I was afraid you . . . didn't know."

            "Adrian, I'm going back to bed."

            Click.

            She was mad at him again.

            _Why did I call her?  It's three in the morning!_

            But she'd come back.  Tomorrow.  She always did.

            He tried to sleep.  He really did.

            _What am I missing?_

            Sometime later, after he'd gotten up to check the back door, the fireplace (he'd never used it), the alarm clock again, he noticed the light at the edge of the curtain.

            It was dawn.

            He'd never needed an alarm clock in his life.  When he actually slept, he always awoke at 6:00.  But he still set several alarm clocks, all for 7:00.  On the dot.

            In case he didn't wake up.

            _What if Sharona doesn't come today?_

            He got up.  Shower.  Brush teeth.  Dress.  Vacuum.  All so systematically.  Then back to his desk.  And back to the file.  Back to Trudy.

            _What does it mean__?_

            It was always the same routine.

            Never falter, never alter.

"I'm so tired of being tired  
As sure as night will follow day  
Most things I worry about  
Never happen anyway."

            --Tom Petty, "Crawling Back to You"


End file.
